


401 (k)

by oncewewerezombies



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alien Technology, Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Alternia is Terrible, Consent Issues, F/M, Helming, IN SPACE!, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mercy Killing, Moral Ambiguity, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Suicide, bioengineering, biowire, hideous personal headcanons regardingAlternian culture, personal rebellion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 03:04:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9579629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oncewewerezombies/pseuds/oncewewerezombies
Summary: CLASSIFIED: Not to be read by trolls below blood colour 6a006a or under the age of 100 sweeps, by order of Her Imperious Condescension.Case notes regarding an occasion of pale romance between a yellow-blooded helmstroll and blue-blooded terronician. Incident resulted in unforeseen retirement of helmstroll, at a great loss to the Empire and personal inconvenience to the Empress. This incident is to be used in training among the Admiralty in regards as to danger signs, warning signals and other miscellaneous romantic indications amongst helmstrolls and support staff.FILE ANNOTATED BY HER IMPERIOUS CONDESCENSION: IF THIS EBBER HARPOONS AGAIN, I'M CULLING ANOTHER CASTE AND IT MIGHT KNOT BE THE ONE YOU DECORATED SCUMSUCKERS FIN-K.BE WARNED, MOTHERGLUBBERS. I AIN'T AMUSED. WATCH OUT FOR THIS KINDA FUCKING SHIP, PIKE DAMN, BUOYS AND GILLS.PALE IS A DANGEROUS TYPE OF ROMANCE, HOW MANY TIDES I GOTTA SPRAY IT.





	

You're older, wiser than you were when you first took up a position in Her Imperial Condescension's Imperial Forces upon your Ascension with the rest of your peermates (most of them; you don't think about the ones who did not make it to the stars). Your career has progressed at serious, calculated intervals. Exactly as you've planned it to. You have just managed to achieve your most honourable position yet, one on Her Imperial Condescension's own flagship. The work perhaps, is below you but the regard of serving the Condesce so personally more than makes up for it.

You are not just older and wiser.

You are bereaved.

Eventually, you always knew that either your moirail would not return from one of her tactiterrorist missions, or. Or. She would simply reach the end of her lifespan, manage what few mid or lowbloods did and become old. You are not sure whether to be pleased or not, that it has been the second. It had been some hundreds of sweeps since you first both entered the service of the Empire. It's not as though you had not had the chance to prepare for it. You had had the honour of carrying out her retirement cull yourself, of giving her body to the matter converters for the continuance of the Empire when she had become too tired, too worn to keep going out to fight. It had been quiet, and peaceful. You had made _absolutely certain_ that it was as painfree as possible. It was your last duty, your last service, the very last thing you could do for your moirail.

Now she is gone and you are so alone (you did to yourself and you have no one else to blame, but you know your duty better than you know yourself).

It's been a long time since you worked with the intricacies of biowire. But here you are, suiting up with your dampening gloves and vest so you don't crush the sometimes strangely delicate structures, something you haven't needed to resort to in sweeps. The hum of electrics against your skin is harsh, and you know you'll be burned in arcs and spirals deep into the grey of your hide in about a cycle. Nepeta used to... You turn your mind off from that, wrenching yourself from those memories which have no place here in the world you live in now. Without her.

You are so alone.

The helmsroom is...disgusting. If this is the flagship of the fleet, the _Battleship Condescension_ , then surely it should have been better maintained than this. Your nose wrinkles, the mess and outright disorder offending you to the utmost and you decide that tidying up is going to be one of your first duties. Once you'd run the diagnostics. You approach one of the terminals, push back your goggles and start typing. This, somehow is clean. It is about the only thing in the room that is, eerily so.

What is that stain in the corner? You're really not sure.

You don't want to be sure.

You are relatively certain it's slurry. 

You're actually one hundred per cent certain that it's slurry, and it's a stunning imperial shade so you're _really_ not going to think about it. Not too hard, anyway. Easy enough to do; there's so much _filth_ in here, it's astoundingly offensive to your sensibilities. This is the Helmsroom of the First Ship of the Imperial Fleet. It deserves better than this. The Helmsman deserves better than this, for the effort the former troll puts into advancing the cause of Her Imperious Condescension. 

Logging into the console, you snatch your hands back as a Trollian screen fills the display, locking out your diagnostics program. You had only meant to see what state the wetware programming was in, see what code had been hackneyed into service because going by the state of the _physical_ maintenance, you are not trusting what programming has been put into place. What. What is this. This surely can't be the...Helmsman. It must be some sort of joke, some kind of practical prank to play on the new troll on deck. But who else was going to be able to log into these incredibly specific and locked down consoles? There was a reason that all the maintenance for the Battleship Condescension needed to be carried out within the Helmsroom, and it's mostly because there is no conduit outside that could lead to commands besides direct input from the captain's chair. Information, yes. General diagnostics, error correction, database flux dampening...all of that kind of thing needed to be carried out from within the Helmsroom, and could be done nowhere else. Another reason you're so surprised at the filth. Who would want to work in this?

You do not realise it yet, but you are soon to find out that it's because no one actually works down here.

Being the bioware maintenance terronician for the Helmsman is a horrorshow that you are yet to appreciate the full value of and that no one was going to warn you about.

BATTLESHIP CONDESCENSION [BC] is trolling  caballineTechnocrat [CT] 

BC < IIN73R357IING II DIIDN'7 KNOW 7H3Y W3R3 5HIIPPIING WRIIGGL3R5 OU7 NOW  
BC < 53RIIOU5LY 8IINCH H4V3 YOU 3V3N FIILL3D 4 P4IIL???  
CT: E%cuse me  
CT: Am I to understand that I am conversing with the Helmsman  
CT: You are significantly more coherent than I would have imagined  
CT: And more crude  
BC < OH W3 GO7 4 5M4R7 GUY OV3R H3R3  
BC < WH47 CLU3D YOU IIN?  
BC < 7H3 F4C7 7H47 MY CH47H4NDL3 II5 LII73R4LLY 8477L35HIIP COND35C3N5IION  
BC < OR 7H47 YOU KNOW NO ON3 3L53 COULD U53 7HII5 COMMUNII7 45IID3 FROM 5OM3ON3 4C7U4LLY IIN 7H3 ROOM  
BC < 5URPRII53, YOU 8ROK3N-HORN3D 455HOL3, II7'5 JU57 YOU 4ND M3

At this point, you have to take a breath and press a mini-absorbent plane to your forehead to stop the sweat from dripping into the datacolumn and smearing the screen. Calm. You can be calm. Would a word of warning from some other member of the crew that the Helmsman was far more cogent than most helmstrolls have been too much to ask? Of course, you could usually converse with a helmstroll but it was often on a very basic level. Mostly for the use of diagnostics, and nothing more. Did this hurt. Does that slow down your programming. They are not able to rise to the level of cogitation required for _sarcasm_.

At least, you didn't think they were. Perhaps, in the light of new evidence, you will need to rethink your assumptions.

CT: I am going to ask you to moderate your language somewhat  
CT: I feel that is distracting from the issue at hand  
BC < WH47 II55U3, 8IIZN47CH??  
BC < 4M II DII57R4C7IING YOU FROM YOUR DU7II35????  
BC < OH FUCKIING NO, NO7 7H47  
BC < C4N'7 5IID37R4CK 7H3 NOO8 FROM HII5 8R4ND N3W JO8 GO774 LIICK 7H3 RIIGH7 W4LKIING 57RU7 COV3R5 OR YOU'LL JU57 WH47  
BC < GO RIIGH7 DOWN 7H3 7U835  
BC < DII5CIIPLIIN4RY FUCKIING CULL, 4 74L3 7O 5HOCK 4ND HORRIIFY 4LL

You could punish him for that, but the idea sits...wrongly with you. You can see the commands right below your fingertips, just a nudge and a disciplinary shock would squeeze its way through the biowire and into the emaciated body hanging in the nest of fuchsia tentacles. You can almost feel his eyes on you. Waiting for it. For some kind of push, some slap, and you wonder how many technicians had done just that.

You are really wondering about the rate of failure in this position and how much of it was due to the Helmsman, as opposed to as you thought - them being simply unsuitable for the position of honour and respect that they were occupying. You had looked it up before you had moved ship, purely out of curiosity (one of the few you have felt in the sweeps since Nepeta...retired). Most technicians didn't last more than a few sweeps, some had lasted a octocade or so.

CT: You seem to have most of your facilities intact  
CT: This is somewhat different to other helmstrolls I have encountered in my professional career  
BC < NO 5HII7, 8OII.  
CT: I w001d like to ask how you have managed that  
CT: From the case file I have been privileged to read  
CT: You have been in the helm longer than almost any troll has been alive  
CT: I had e%pected considerably more mental deterioration  
BC < 3H3H3H3.  
BC < YOU'D H4V3 7O 45K 7H3 FII5H8II7CH MY DUD3  
BC < II'M JU57 7H3 H4RDW4R3  
BC < 5H35 7H3 ON3 WHO 5UPPLII35 7H3 _JUIIC3_. 8OW CHIICK4 WOW WOW 37 FUCKIING C373R4 4ND DO II M34N _JUIIC3_  
CT: Hrk  
CT: Don't be so disgustingly vulgar  
CT: I assume you are referring to the Empress  
CT: You will endeavour to show a little more respect  
BC < WOW  
BC < N4H. II 7HIINK II'M GOIING 7O K33P D34LIING WII7H H3R IIMP3RIIOU5 455F4C3 3X4C7LY HOW II'V3 833N DOIING II7  
BC < FOR 7H3 L457 OH FOR7Y-FOUR 7HOU54ND 5W33P5 OR 5O  
BC < 7HNX.

Now that had to be a lie. There was no possible way, the file didn't even go back that far... You glance towards the helmstroll again, and you would almost say he's watching you just as intently as you are when you look at him. Even if you're not sure that his oculars work anymore, you're uneasily aware of the cameras watching you from every corner of the room. Where do they feed to? To him, and where else? 

CT: I don't have time for this kind of buffoonery  
CT: Commencing diagnosti%  
BC < H3Y 7H47 7IICKL35!!  
CT: W001d you just let the diagnosti% run  
CT: And maybe let me do some of my job without interference  
CT: Thank you  
BC < FUCKIING POLII73  
BC < 4LRIIGH7, WRIIGGL3R II'LL L37 YOU DO YOUR 5HIIP

You...you really hope that was a pun of some kind. There is some very niche and bizarre underground erotica of helmstrolls and their technicians, but you've _never_... You're uneasily aware of your ears blushing blue and you scowl, concentrate on what the search and find program is telling you. Most things are in the green, but pain is...very high. And the physical part of the diagnostics is error messages across the board, red, red, red. Diseased, ugly red. Everything else seems to be fine. You sigh, and massage the bridge of your nose between thumb and forefinger. 

You have a lot of work ahead of you. 

CT: I am going to have to work on your wetware quite e%tensively  
CT: I apologise for the discomfort in advance  
BC < 01110111 01101000 01100001 01110100 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01100110 01110101 01100011 01101011  
BC < W4II7 WH47  
BC < YOU'R3  
BC < 4POLOGIIZIING 7O M3  
CT: Well  
CT: I am not e%actly comfortable with getting overly familiar with what remains of your body without apologising for it first  
CT: Since you are obviously quite cognisant of what is occurring, unlike other helms I have worked on  
CT: It is necessary  
CT: I can promise that, at least  
BC < 01100110 01110101 01100011 01101011 01101001 01101110 01100111 00100000 01110111 01110010 01101001 01100111 01100111 01101100 01100101 01110010 01110011  
BC < G37 YOUR F33L ON IIF YOU F33L 7H47 YOU N33D 7O  
BC < YOU'D 83 ON3 OF 7H3 F3W 7O 8O7H3R  
BC < D3FIINII73LY 7H3 FIIR57 7O 45K  
BC < YOU'R3 ON3 W3IIRD 8LOO8LOOD  
CT: Don't make me regret it  
BC < Y34H 7H47'5 MOR3 7H3 7ON3 II'V3 COM3 7O KNOW 4ND LO47H3  
BC < YOU'R3 R34LLY NO7 7H47 5C4RY YOU KNOW.  
BC < II'V3 D34L7 WII7H WOR53  
BC < MUCH WOR53 7H4N YOU, WRIIGGL3R  
CT: I am sure that both of those things are true  
CT: You will have to excuse me while I gather some supplies  
CT: This is not going to be a one night e%ercise  
CT: You will need to be patient

caballineTechnocrat [CT]  stopped trolling BATTLESHIP CONDESCENSION [BC]

You weren't lying when you said it would be a more than one night exercise. In fact, it becomes all that you do. You are surrounded by trolls outside your caste, either earfin fluttering, deadly courteous seadwellers or the lowbloods who attend to the other functions of the ship from basic maintenance to cleaning and cooking and never quite look you in the eye. You are alone. You miss your moirail. It has been five sweeps since she left you, and your nerves are still all over raw with it. It seems just too tiring for words to reach out, to try to find a way to be social with the others on board ship. So you don't bother (it's not like any of them bother to extend a welcoming frond either, but you're used to that). You change into your uniform, eat, go down to the Helmsblock and dedicate yourself to cleaning it. This comes to take up most of your night. Surprisingly, the code was in quite good condition. It's merely the physical environment that has become a slatternly mess. 

Apparently no one else besides you, the Empress and a few certain select highbloods have access. No maintenance staff, they're all of too low and warm a blood. Not trustworthy. Perhaps prone to foolish sympathising. Wise, you suppose. But you are still aghast to the very core of what you might call your soul, if you were of a less advanced race, that any terronician worth anything could leave a Helmsroom like this. Even if it meant cleaning the mess up with their own hands. You scrub and mend, you fix biowire couplings and attend to rotting flesh. After a while, you stop smelling it. The diagnostics get more and more favourable, and you think that despite the scathing words of contempt that the Helmsman types at you in Trollian when you use the control terminal, that he appreciates it. 

Your primary link to any of your other hatefriends was always Nepeta, and with her gone...well. It wasn't as though some of them hadn't already been 'retired'. You had no way to keep in contact with the highblood after he was subsumed into the lurking, brightly painted ships that served the Mirthful Church...and no real wish to, after he'd firmly rejected your proposition of kismesissitude just prior to Ascension. The warmer shades among you had died off, and there had been those that had never made it off-planet. And with those who were left, you had no real desire to maintain ties. Pyrope had sent you a brief message of regretful acknowledgement when she must have been alerted to Nepeta's passing through the deathrolls. Maybe she had an alert on certain names? You are sure it could be done, if you wanted to but you find yourself curiously void of any emotion without Nepeta, almost any desire, besides the ones that you have always built your life around. Service. Duty. Honour. You will do your best in the place that has been given to you, and you will not falter. You _will_ do your duty, what is required of you. You don't have anything else left. 

Perhaps it is no wonder that since the only person that wants to talk to you is the Helmsman, you spend a lot of time talking with him. Quite outside of your duties. He is...engaging. Funny, in a very dry way that you enjoy, when it's not tainted with pailing innuendo. When he stops doing that, you think maybe that perhaps. He trusts you in some way. You want to trust him. He is so proud in his own way, and so scathingly disrespectful, and such a wreck of a troll. It makes you feel something that you thought was dead with your moirail. Perhaps. Something like that. 

No. This is inappropriate. You start to draw away, but you are so alone that even talking with him, no matter how indiscreet or possibly treacherous your communications start to become, you can't stop. It is. Nice. To have someone to talk to. And the Helmsman understands your work, he suggests ways to make things easier for him in the helmscolumn, to get more energy from his psionics. You are aware that it is a sacrifice, and you hesitate to put some of the measures he'd suggested in place. 

He convinces you to, and you keep a careful eye on both the energy output and his personal well being. It's your job. 

It's just your job. 

BC < C4V4LR34P3R 7O F5  
CT: Pawn to G4  
BC < P4WN 7O H4

You play chess. It's. Nice? You think that he gets a kick out of it. Obviously, you physically move both sides of the game, but he offers a witty and spirited line of defence to batter your skills against. You haven't had a game this good in quite a while. It doesn't seem to be a game that the crew on this ship practice, or at least you haven't found anyone willing to play against you. You spend some time in the sparring circles, keeping up your fighting skills, but otherwise you spend most of the time when you're not asleep, in here. The Helmsroom. Now that you've cleaned it, it's almost pleasant. Except for the biowires...they move unpleasantly, and you're uneasily aware of how they must burrow into the Helmsman's flesh. How they fasten on and siphon his energy out of him, into the ship's systems. Powering the vessel to fly the stars under Her Imperial Condescension's commands. 

It's never bothered you before. 

It does now. 

BC < YOU 5HOULD GO 7O COON, WRIIGGL3R  
CT: Really  
CT: You think so  
BC < Y34H II DO  
BC < GO1NG 7O M4K3 4 FIIGH7 OF II7 PUNK  
CT: I suppose you have a point  
CT: What time is it  
BC < WHO C4R35  
BC < 8U7 YOUV'3 833N UPRIIGH7 FOR 3IIGH733N HOUR5  
BC < 5O  
CT: You're not my lusus  
CT: Really, that kind of care is unnecessary  
BC < JU57 GO 7O COON 4LR34DY, GRU8  
CT: Fine  
CT: If you're that tired of my company  
BC < H4! YOU'R3 MOR3 FUN WH3N YOU C4N 7HIINK PROP3RLY  
BC < II'LL 533 YOU 7OMORROW  
BC < 01100111 01101111 00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 01110011 01101100 01100101 01100101 01110000 00100000 01100010 01100101 01100110 01101111 01110010 01100101 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 00100000 01100110 01100001 01101100 01101100 00100000 01101111 01110110 01100101 01110010   


It feels like it has been a long time since someone has desired your company, to actually have you around. Now you have things running so smoothly, you only need to make a pretence of working. The Helmsman's conduits are clear and all diagnostics are green across the board. You feel a warm glow of accomplishment every time you run your programs and see that. The tension on his face around the ocular-magnifiers has relaxed too. 

That makes you feel. 

You don't have words for how it makes you feel. 

You are sure you are not meant to feel that way about a helmstroll. And. Is it a betrayal as well? It has been...some time since Nepeta died. But to say anything would be improper. Besides, it is probably just misplaced pale leanings due to the nature of the caretaking work you perform. It means nothing. 

BC < WH47 IIN 7H3 WIID3 WIID3 FUCKIING WORLD OF 4L73RNII4 15 7HII5 H4PPY HOOF83457 5HII7  
CT: Language  
CT: The proper title is obviously very long  
CT: But it is most commonly known as My Little Hoofbeast: The Power of Hatefriendship  
CT: This is the  
CT: Fifteenth remake, I believe  
CT: Only purists have the first four or so  
CT: But this is the one that I watched on Alternia when I was younger so I have a certain fondness for it  
BC < OH MY FUCKIING GOD  
BC < YOU 4R3 5UCH 4 54P  
CT: E%cuse you  
BC < YOU 4C7U4LLY LIIK3 7HII5  
BC < YOU R34LLY LIIK3 7HII5  
BC < FUCKIING 8IIG 57RONG 8LOO8LOOD LIIK3 YOU 4ND 7HII5 II5 WH47 YOU W47CH FOR 3N73R74IINM3N7  
CT: Do you want me to turn it off  
BC < FUCK NO  
BC < II LIIK3 7H3 LII77L3 M4G1C U53R'5 5PUNK  
BC < II HOP3 5H3 CULL5 7H3 FUCK OU7 OF H3R RIIV4L  
CT: That's  
CT: That is not the point of the show  
BC < FUCKIING RIIP H3R 7HRO47 OU7 8II7CH C'MON  
CT: You are really missing the point of this  
CT: Can you try to be a little less bloodthirsty  
BC < COM3 ON WRIIGGL3R  
BC < LOOK 47 7HII5 8II7CH GO  
BC < FUCK 7H47 5HII7 UP GIIRL G37 IIN7O H3R  
BC < 7H47'5 FUCKIING GOLD RIIGH7 7H3R3  
BC < H333YO  
CT: Alright, this episode is a little out of the norm  
CT: In terms of...violence  
CT: But I'm glad you're enjoying it  
BC < Y34H  
BC < Y34H II 4M  
BC < 7H4NK YOU  
CT: You're welcome, Helmsman  
BC < 3H  
BC < C4LL M3 P5II WRIIGGL3R  
BC < 4F73R 4LL 7H3 PL4C35 YOU'V3 H4D YOUR FONDLIING 57RU75 IIN7O II 7HIINK YOU C4N C4LL M3 8Y MY N4M3  
BC < WH47'5 L3F7 OF II7  
BC < WH47'5 L3F7 OF M3 FOR 7H47 M4773R  
CT: Oh  
CT: Um  
CT: Thank you  
CT: I suppose you could call me Equius then  
CT: If you thought it proper  
BC < 5UR3  
BC < 3QUIIU5 II7 II5

Surprisingly before you know it, it's Drone Season. You complain about it to Psii, as you've allowed yourself to come to think of him. It's always such a degrading affair. You've never had a stable concupiscent quadrant, so things are always a little fraught with tension. Usually you just go into the ship's lottery to be matched with another troll with missing concupiscent quadrants, and that's good enough. You've always made your contribution, you just think of it as another unpleasant task that you are duty-bound to undergo. Also, being culled for failing to fill a filial pail is such a _stupid_ reason for a cull. You just swallow down your objections until it's over with for another sweep. It's all just so distasteful. Maybe it would be different if you actually had a proper matesprit or kismesis, but you don't. It's not as though you've _never_ , but it's never been as pleasing, as emotionally satisfying as your moirallegiance. Physical satisfaction aside. And none of those relationships had lasted, not in the same way that your pale quadrant had. 

You enter your name into the ship drone lottery and wait to see who you're matched with. It's not terrible. You're matched lower than you would like, but that's mostly because of regretful, uncomfortable memories of a time when you thought you had found your serendipitous flushed partner and really, you'd just been lying to yourself. Wilfully. Besides, there aren't any other b100b100ds on the ship so it was really always going to be like that, no matter what. You doubt any of the seadwellers would lower themselves to admitting they needed to enter the lottery; you assume that they have their own work arounds set up for this kind of situation. Pails filled and delivered, you are more than glad enough to put it behind you for another sweep. At least the discomfort is only temporary. You've read things about alien species, about animals on your own home world, that make you glad that most reproductive and grub rearing processes are a step removed for trolls. You don't think you'd be a very good lusus. 

Or very many other trolls you know either. 

Putting your palm against the sensor so it can register your presence as you've done hundreds of times before this, you enter the Helmsroom...and freeze. 

You had left things neat, tidy, organised. Psii (as you've come to think of him, with his permission) had been wheezingly amused by your distaste for the idea of Drone Season in general and your place in it in particular. The wreckage you're looking at is something you have to try and comprehend in parts. His breath is rasping and slow, in a way that you haven't heard since the first time you entered the room. There's. Fuchsia. You can't. You kind of fold at the knees, trying not to stare and not really able to look away. Why would she - why would the _Empress_ \- surely if he was acting as a helmstroll, there was no need, no expectation to - to - (you should have known, you should have guessed, you've been LYING to yourself about things for so long, you've been LYING, you knew, you knew this would happen, could happen, had happened). 

The control terminal chirps at you and you get to your feet, woodenly walking your way over to see what it has to say. His dragging breaths continue as the cameras swivel and reorient, watching your slow and unsteady walk. Your knees hurt, your chest makes it hard to breathe. You shouldn't feel this old, you're barely four hundred sweeps. 

BATTLESHIP CONDESCENSION [BC] is trolling  caballineTechnocrat [CT] 

BC < II7'5 NO7 45 84D 45 YOU 7HIINK II7 II5  
BC < JU57 C4LM DOWN  
CT: Calm down  
CT: Are you just  
CT: Do you hoofnestly think I can just calm down because you tell me to be calm  
CT: You are sincerely mistaken  
BC < 3HHHH W3LL KIID YOU'R3 JU57 GONN4 H4V3 7O G37 OV3R II7  
BC < WH3N YOU'R3 7H3 3MPR355 OF 7H3 KNOWN UNIIV3R53 YOU WORK UP 7O 5OM3 KIINK5  
BC < NORM4L 5HII7 JU57 DO35N7 DO II7 4NY MOR3  
BC < 7HII5 II5N'7 4NY7HIING 7O WORRY 48OU7  
BC < OL 8477L34X3 II5N'7 GOIING 7O DO 4NY7HIING 7O M3 7H47 15N'7 FIIX48L3  
BC < 83LII3V3 M3, 7HII5 II5 NO7HIING N3W 5O C4LM YOUR 5CULP73D P3C5  
BC < II'M FIIN3  
CT: Oh really  
CT: You're fine  
CT: Let's see what diagonsti% say

You furiously type into the control terminal, bring up the diagonstics programs to get a better understanding of his physical condition. If you had less practice in controlling your temper, you probably would have broken the keys. As it is, you come very, _very_ close. You snort air through your nose as you stare down at the report, it had taken a moment to consider the situation. Maybe a little too long? The diagnostics show some damage, but not too muchs. Pain. But nothing unbearable. Much less than what you'd walked into when you arrived. 

BC < 533 II'M FIIN3  
BC < 4LL DII4GNO57IIC5 WII7HIIN 54F3 P4R4M373R5  
BC < C4LM YOUR IINCR3D18LY 7IIGH7LY WOUND 5HII7

"Don't _tell_ me to be calm! You are NOT -" _my moiral_. You breathe before you say the words and you press your hands against your eyes. You so dearly want Nepeta here, to feel her hand on your cheek and her purr against your skin as she rests across your shoulder. Life has become so much harder edged and infuriating without her. You don't. You don't know what to do. You know what you should do. Clean this up, repair what you can and allow flesh a chance to heal, never talk about it again. When the next Drone Season comes, you will be doing the same thing again. 

_And again._

And again. 

For as long as this is your post. 

And if you ask to leave because you can't handle this, who will he be put into the hands of next? Someone else who'll mistreat and neglect him? You're not quite sure when you started thinking of him as a troll. It is. Problematic. Maybe when he asked you to call him by his name? Sometime when you started to play chess? It was a mistake. It was such a terrible, horrible mistake. You should think of him as nothing more than a piece of equipment, something to perform maintenance for, and that _is all you should think of him as_. After all, it's how you thought of other helmstrolls when you first started working in biowire. They had just been living machines, nothing more. Trolls once, trolls no more. Serving their purpose to the Empire, as they should have been honoured to do. 

Maybe you should have gone for the archeradicators after all. 

BC < 5HII7 5ON, CHIILL  
BC < II'V3 833N D34LIING WII7H 7H3 5348II7CH 5IINC3 83FOR3 YOU W3R3 H47CH3D  
BC < II'LL L37 YOU KNOW WH3N 5H3 DO35 5OM37HIING 5H3 H45N'7 DON3 83FOR3  
BC < PRO848LY 5HOULD H4V3 7OLD YOU, HUH  
CT: It may have been appreciated  
CT: Some warning  
CT: I suppose I should have inferred  
CT: From some of the...mess that was in here when I arrived  
BC < 5H3'5 4 5LOPPY 8II7CH WH47 C4N II 54Y  
BC < U53D 7O 5OM3ON3 3L53 CL34NIING UP 4LL H3R M35535  
BC < 5H3 W45 4C7U4LLY PR377Y 1MPR3553D WH3N 5H3 C4M3 DOWN H3R3  
BC < NO7 U53D 7O 7HII5 HOL3 83IING JU57 7H47 CL34N  
CT: I certainly hope you're referring to the helmsroom  
BC < 4H4H4H4!  
BC < FUCK 7H47 PIINCH3D LOOK 4LMO57 M4K35 II7 WOR7H II7  
BC < 5O 345Y 7O 73453, WRIIGGL3R

You can't do this. There is a pan-ache pulsing through your skull, behind your eyes and up to the bases of your horns. You haven't vomited since after you helped Nepeta to retire but you think you are going to do it now, there's a bitter taste in the back of your throat and a churning in your abdominal sack. 

CT: I need to go get some cleaning equipment

caballineTechnocrat [CT] stopped trolling BATTLESHIP CONDESCENSION [BC]

At least he won't be able to talk to you when you're cleaning him up. He does still have his vocal chords but he mostly seems to use them to laugh at you. He's not laughing right now. You fetch some cleaning rags and soap, before coming back to the Helmsroom. Cleaning him is. Embarrassing. You don't know how he feels about it. He doesn't tell you. You don't ask. Nothing is damaged, or even overly stretched. Once you've wiped away the tyrian slurry from his nook, you need to re-close his jumpsuit. Thankfully, it doesn't seem to have been ripped open, and the seals still work so you just slowly press the edges together, putting him back to rights. Giving him some dignity back. Something hurts, inside your chest, as you do so. 

"...sss..." 

You look up as something sibilant escapes his mouth, and you know most of the facial expressions he makes aren't exactly voluntary. There's another reason why the helmstrolls are usually so incoherent. Sorting through and redistributing so much data, the way they're linked into the ship's systems, they truly become the ship. Everything on a physical level becomes much less important. What matters is what's in their minds. They lose themselves in it. 

"...chill...'uius..." 

You drop the filthy, fuchsia-stained cloth at the sound of his voice trying to comfort you and abruptly abscond. 

Inside your respiteblock, you press your hands to your mouth and feel everything in you closing, stilling. Except your pusher, beating hard and fast inside your chest. You don't want to care about him, _a helmstroll is Empire owned equipment_. You know that. He's nothing more than a piece of the ship. Imperial property. You know that. You know it, it's true, it's just the truth. He is - he's not - oh. _Oh_. It feels like your pusher is going to explode in your chest, and you rub your hands over your cheeks, you touch your face, your horns, in a futile attempt to trigger your pacification reflexes and gain some sort of calm. You want someone else to do it, you want lukewarm hands and a rough purr, you want your _moirail_ but she's dead. She's dead. 

You killed her. 

You _killed her_. 

Could she have lived longer? Who knew. You snapped her neck in her sleep, while she was somnolent from sopor. You had discussed it, what to do. All she'd asked was that she didn't know. You hope that you fulfilled that desire, at least. That she hadn't known. You don't think she did. 

The Empire could afford no weakness. The Empire allowed no weakness. Glory to the Empire. You sink your hands into your hair and feel like there's ice spreading from inside you to all of your extremities. _Fuck_ the Empire. You're done. You can't do this again. 

It's two nights before you go back and see the Helmsman. You take something with you, hidden under your uniform. The pulse and energy signature of your strength dampening suit is quite the effective camouflage, and you've known that for sweeps. It has never occurred for you to flag it as a security risk because that would mean that _you_ were a security risk and that was frankly, impossible. Until now. 

"I'm...sorry I was away so long. I had to think." He doesn't look at you, and you know you've made quite the hash of things. The rasp of his breathing continues unchanged; he's ignoring you. You sigh and log into the command console, trolling at him. You can only hope that he feels like answering. 

caballineTechnocrat [CT] started trolling BATTLESHIP CONDESCENSION [BC]

CT: D --> I hoofnestly do apologise most sincerely  
CT: D --> I brought you something

He says nothing. The cameras don't even orientate towards you like they normally would but he hasn't blocked you out of the chat client. Put a bar to you contacting him. You'd be able to get around it, of course, but you don't want to press on his sore points. What can it feel like to not even control that much? Your fingers flex, and you lower your head as you open the front of your suit. Yes, still quite lively, not damaged yet by the coils in touch with your skin. The datagrub curls around your fingers and you fix it into place, the half-alive, half-mechanical insect quivering as it gives up its information to the dataconsole. 

CT: D --> It might e%plain a few things  
CT: D --> I hope it will  
CT: D --> I ask that you 100k at least  
CT: D --> Please

You don't even realise you're twisting your fingers in your hair until it starts to hurt. Strands drawn so tight around your finger, pulling fiercely against your scalp as you wind and wind and wind. When you notice the tingling numbness, you pull your hand away, smooth your hair back and sigh. You know he could view it in nanoseconds, if he wanted, the information you put on the grub. Not even nanoseconds. Picoseconds. Maybe he just doesn't care. You sigh, and go to withdraw the grub. You've taken a risk bringing it in here, and you're not entirely sure that your coding is up to scratch in order to protect yourself, hide your data and any trace of yourself and your inteference. Better not to leave it in any longer than you already have. For all you know, his programming has held true where yours hasn't, and there's a team of cullers en route to this room or your quarters right now. 

BC < W4II7

You do, trying not to nervously fidget. 

BC < 7HII5 II5 YOUR...FIIL3  
BC < YOUR IIMP3RII4L FIIL3  
BC < 4ND YOUR MOIIR4IIL'5??  
CT: D --> Yes  
BC < YOU'V3 CH4NG3D YOUR QUIIRK 7OO  
CT: D --> Reverted, is perhoofs more of a better term  
CT: D --> I haven't used it since Nepeta retired  
CT: D --> After that, I changed my handle as well  
CT: D --> It no longer seemed appropriate  
BC < HUH  
BC < R37IIR3D.  
BC < 5UCH 4 FUCKIING W4Y 7O GLO55 OV3R WH47 YOU DIID.

Your hands shake, and you bow your head. It was in the files that you had handed over. You had not expected him to take it well. Yet, at the least he hadn't signed off. So perhaps he is willing to give you a chance to explain. 

CT: D --> At the time  
CT: D --> It was what I thought was best  
CT: D --> We agreed that it w001d be  
BC < OH R34LLY  
BC < YOU _4GR33D_ 7H47 II7 WOULD 83 7H3 8357 7HIING 7O DO  
BC < 5OM37IIM35 II DON'7 KNOW WHY H3 FUCKIING 8O7H3R3D  
CT: D --> W001d bluntness make you feel better  
CT: D --> I killed her while she was in her recuperacoon  
CT: D --> She was getting slower and we both knew what w001d happen, sooner or later  
CT: D --> So yes  
CT: D --> Based on the information that we had available  
CT: D --> From the choices we had  
CT: D --> We agreed  
CT: D --> I miss her  
CT: D --> I am sorry that at the time it was all we c001d think of to do  
CT: D --> That I c001d not protect her as I sh001d have  
CT: D --> Maybe we sh001d have tried for a different way  
BC < D4MN II7  
BC < II'M NO7 M34N7 7O F33L 5ORRY FOR YOU  
BC < _R37IIR3M3N7_ DIIDN'7 U53 7O 83 4 7HIING, YOU KNOW  
BC < NO7 83FOR3 7H3 534 8II7CH GO7 H3R 57IICKY F1NG3R5 4LL OV3R 3V3RY7HIING.  
CT: D --> It isn't a system completely without merit  
CT: D --> In some cases  
CT: D --> I w001d suggest you think about that  
CT: D --> In relation to your own circumstances

There was a lengthy pause, not just in computing terms but in meatspace as well. You've never known him to wait so long to give you a reply unless like before, he was purposefully ignoring you. You won't know what it means until he replies. You are being circumspect, but his programming should make him set off alarms. Everywhere. Call for help immediately. You are on tenterhooks, waiting. 

BC < II DON'7 W4N7 7O U53 7H3 7 WORD  
BC < 8U7 7H47 5UGG3571ON II5 7O74LLY 7H3 7 WORD, MY GUY  
BC < 01100010 01110101 01110100 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 01101110 00100000 01100001 01100111 01100001 01101001 01101110  
BC < 01101101 01100001 01111001 01100010 01100101 00100000 01101001 01110100 00100000 01100100 01101111 01100101 01110011 00100000 01101101 01100001 01101011 01100101 00100000 01110011 01100101 01101110 01110011 01100101  
BC < 8U7 7H47'5 NO7 7H3 ONLY 7HIING YOUR3 7RY1NG 7O 54Y H3R3, WRIIGGL3R.  
BC < JU57 5PII7 II7 OU7.  
CT: D --> I am  
CT: D --> I feel  
CT: D --> There may be a possibility that I am  
CT: D --> Do I actually have to say it  
BC < YOU 83773R FUCKIING 83LII3V3 YOU DO, 3QUIIU5  
BC < 5PII7 II7 OU7  
CT: D --> As terribly romantic novel cliché as it might be  
CT: D --> I think I pity you  
CT: D --> In a pale sense  
CT: D --> I am sorry  
CT: D --> I did not mean to  
CT: D --> I do not want to make you feel like you need to reciprocate 

You kind of want to curl up over the command console and vomit. You feel like you're betraying Nepeta in some way. Like trespassing on a highblood's territory, something terrible and undefined to happen to you for daring to do something like pity this husk of a troll. Even so, you don't think somehow that she would have minded too much. Psii needed terribly, so terribly badly, for someone to pity him. As a troll. Not just to think of him as equipment, as something to be used. Someone needed to remember that he was a troll. At the base of it. And much to your surprise and horrified realisation, it had been you. No one else, just you. 

Now you can't stop feeling this terrible, _wrenching_ pity for him. 

CT: D --> I am sorry for taking such a liberty  
CT: D --> I  
BC < 5HU7 UP, YOU 4M4ZIINGLY PII7IIFUL FUCKIING WR3CK  
BC < L37 M3 7HIINK 48OU7 7HII5  
BC < LUCKY FOR YOU, II'M MOR3 7H4N JU57 POLY4MOROU5  
BC < <>  
CT: D --> Oh  
CT: D --> You really  
BC < DON'7 M4K3 5UCH 4 8IIG FUCKIING D34L 48OU7 II7  
BC < P4L3 FOR YOU, 8L4H 8L4H 8L4H  
BC < NO ON3 3L53 WOULD H4V3 8O7H3R3D 7O 54Y 5ORRY  
BC < YOU'R3 7H3 FIIR57 ON3 WHO 7RII3D 7O DO 5OM37HIING LIIK3 PL4Y CH355 WII7H M3  
BC < 7R3473D M3 LIIK3 II W45 4 7ROLL HOW II U53D 7O 83  
CT: D --> I don't want it to just be about something like that, playing chess  
CT: D --> A recreational pursuit  
CT: D --> I tr001y feel  
BC < II KNOW  
BC < II'V3 833N 4ROUND, YOU H3F7 OF 3GG54CK, DON'7 574R7 F33LIING LIIK3 YOU'R3 PU77IING 5OM37HIING OV3R ON M3 OR 4NY7HIING LIIK3 7H47. II'D 83 48L3 7O 73LL IIF YOU W3R3 FROM 4N IIN73R573LL4R CLIICK, 4ND YOU'R3 4 LO7 CLO53R 7H4N 7H47. DON'7 WORRY 48OU7 II7.  
BC < C4LM YOUR FUCKIING 7II75  
BC < 5HOO5H.

The conversation disintegrates even further after that and you wind up at the base of the helmscolumn at the end of it, sitting in filthy water and breathing hard. Not quite able to push yourself over the edge to actual tears. It would probably help, if you were actually able to cry. But you haven't done that for sweeps. Not since even before Nepeta died. You just breathe raggedly and shudder, and listen to him mutter. Not even words. Not even able to offer a hand against your cheek. Somehow, this makes you feel paler than ever. 

As far as the offer of 'retirement' goes, you let him think about it. You let him bring it up, when he feels ready for it. You take back your datagrub, you continue to play chess, you introduce him to a new iteration of 'Hatefriendship is Magic'. This one's a little different. More focus on the earth ponies, less focus on the sea. You let things go. You let him think. You make sure that your insinuations are as carefully bland as you can make them - encoding or encrypting them would only make them more obvious. Banality is your watch word. And you really are a very boring troll. Boring, loyal, perfectly b100. It's how you got this job, after all. 

BC < YOU KNOW, 3QUIIU5  
BC < M4Y83 II7'5 7IIM3 7O 7HIINK 48OU7 74KIING 4 8R34K

You're talking about something else entirely when he brings it up. 

For a moment, you can't breathe. 

CT: D --> If you think so  
CT: D --> I have thought that it might be beneficial if you were able to have some down time  
CT: D --> I will see what I can engineer

And you both leave it at that. You don't even try to do anything to bring about his retirement for most of a sweep. You wonder if he hates you for your cowardice, the fact that you do nothing while he suffers. While night after night, cycle after cycle, he's drained away into the reactors of the ship. The way he has been for so many, _so many_ sweeps. Long before you were hatched. Possibly even long before the Mother Grub received the components of slurry that She mixed into you. You, with your strong blunt hands and arrow-shaped horns, your b100b100d. 

You expect to be culled at any moment, for someone to realise what you are doing, what you feel, the treason rising inside yourself, your own so previously utterly loyal self. You had been so b100. You work on small projects in your down time, seemingly unrelated. A cloaking something. A data-mining wormgrub, terrible and slow. Things like you've always worked on, destructive. Malignant. Some things actually get passed on to the greater Empire, like you've always done. Some things...a few things, you keep to yourself. You've always had failed projects. You are not culled. You receive a commendation even, not a personal message from Her Imperious Condescension, but. It's a mark in your favour from the violetblood who nominally commands you, but doesn't know what you do, so he never tells you to do anything. He is lucky that you are a dedicated worker. His lacklustre leadership serves you well now, however. 

You laugh yourself sick over it in your chamber and rock yourself back and forth, hands over your head and grabbing at your intact horn. You murdered one moirail for the sake of the Empire. You are about to do something similar to another, to keep him from it. Amazing. What symmetry, what pleasing form. He can't pap you with his hands subsumed into horrorterror flesh, but you talk to him, you mutter sub-vocally as you feel yourself fraying at the edges. This will be it. This will be the end. 

You have no intention of being available to go to the Inquisitormentors. To _disappear_ into the mirthful depths of the caste one step above yours, hung about with the charge of blasphemy. Or perhaps to be seized by the legislacerator corps, for treasonous crimes against the Empire. That is not in your plans. You will do this. It's time, past time, for Psii to rest, to join the rest of his quadrants that he has only hinted at to you. You wish that you could have a proper, outright feelings jam. All your conversations together are so circumspect. Who is listening? Who is piecing together fragments of conversations that you have together? Who is listening? 

Vomiting into your load gaper one morning, hair slick with sopor and plastered to your head and neck in slimy trails, you know you have everything ready. Every piece is prepared. You are ready. 

You just need to _do_ it, to act. 

So you do. 

You make your move. Nobody expects to talk to you, and you make your way unmolested to the Helmsroom. Nobody bothers you. Why would they? You're just the technician. It's a very particular form of blindness, and one you've been glad of before. But not quite for this reason. Not a single troll asks why you have the bag in your hand that you do, or what's inside it, or what you intend to do with it. No one asks a single thing of you. You are either too high to be questioned, or they ignore you because you're not worth paying attention to. 

The bag is so light for what it contains. 

caballineTechnocrat [CT] started trolling BATTLESHIP CONDESCENSION [BC]

CT: D --> Hello Psii  
CT: D --> How are you this evening  
BC < 5OR3  
BC < 7IIR3D  
BC < WH47 3L53 DO YOU 3XP3C7??  
CT: D --> Well  
CT: D --> Maybe it's time that you had a  
CT: D --> Rest

There's nothing for a moment, and you wonder if he changed his mind. If he has, you'll leave. You don't know what else you will do but you won't take this last choice from him. It's the only one you thought you had the strength to give him, and he has the right to say no. If he wants to. 

BC < L37'5 DO II7  
BC < FUCKIING 8RIING II7 ON, WRIIGGL3R  
BC < W3'R3 GONN4 FUCK 5HII7 UP  
BC < R37IIR3M3N7 FUCKIING P4R7Y II5 GO

You don't know what sort of programming a statement that blatant is going to trigger so you move quickly and with purpose, unzipping your toolbag and then the front of your suit. Slap the dataworm into the panel and let it go, start ungorging its poison into the ship's systems. Sirens start wailing as you pull the blocker out of your bag, turn it on with fumbling fingers to start it broadcasting and turn this whole space. This deck. Into a section of void, a blank space in the security systems. The sirens SCREAM, and you hear doors slamming into place. Cutting you off from the rest of the ship. 

Nobody comes down here, so you shouldn't be trapping any...innocents in with you (is any troll innocent, has anyone ever not spilled some blood at some point in their lives? You can't say, but you wouldn't trap them in here with you to be marked as possible conspirators if you can avoid it - no one deserves the joyful cells). Even the maintenance staff avoid it and besides, they should be cleaning the seadweller quarters right now, safely out of harm's way. Now you need to move fast enough to circumvent the paralysing gas. There was no way that Her Imperious Condescension would want to miss out on the chance to get her hands on a traitor. Like yourself. So the gases only stun, they don't kill. The death of someone who dared to something to the Imperial Helmsman would come much, _much_ later. You wrap a gas mask over your face and keep working, using the worm to follow up in gaps in the system. Programming...you've gotten better at it, but it's not something you're what you would call intuitive with. 

A second datagrub squirms its way into the dataconsole's ports. This one to set off mirages, double images of yourself through the security cameras. Not just you alone, you have included some sea dwellers. Ones that you despised particularly. The sirens clamour on and on and _on_ , and you ignore them. Keep working. You are very good at continuing to work under intolerable circumstances. You always have been. 

BC < HURRY

Fingers spanning the data consolepad, you hammer out a series of commands. Overrides. The alarms stop, and you take a breath, smelling the dead scent of the gases through the filter of your mask as Psii hangs limp in the nest of tentacles that make up the Helmscolumn. Embracing him vilely, growing through his skin and deeper, deeper into his body in an obscene embrace. You get up, forcing yourself to move. 

"Pale for you," you mutter, and for the first time, the only time, you lay your hands on his face in a way that isn't professional. His flesh is almost as cool as yours, that's what it feels like. He's slack and relaxed, the gases working on him while you breathe like a bellows through your mask. You feel his cheekbones, the angles of his face. Stroke your thumbs over his pacification receptors, see his eyelashes flutter behind the dulled lenses of his goggles. You study the way his mouth hangs slack, drool leaking past his misshaped fangs, you take a deep breath. Steady. _Steady_. 

And twist your hands, hard. 

His neck snaps. 

New alarms start up, even more urgent and shrill, as you pull the blaster from your belt, and place it against his chest and the stuttering gasp of his pusher. Fire, five second burn. His abdomen, ten second burn. Fire. You wiggle it a little, making sure that the blaster guts him and ruins his insides. When you put it against the side of his head, you don't just pull it once. You keep blazing until there's nothing left of his brain. He is not. _Not_. Coming back to this. You're crying. You can feel it oozing wetly under the straps of the gas mask. It's something like a release, and you haven't felt it in so long. 

You knew what you were doing since the first step you'd taken to put this in motion. 

You knew what this would mean. You both had known. He is - _was_ \- the Imperial Helmsman. It really wasn't ever going to be that you would survive this. Either you take care of it yourself...or you have a much longer, painful dying to look forward to. You've always preferred to take care of things yourself, after all. 

The last thing you do is start the timer for the small, very explosive, fast burning bomb that you brought in to the room in separate parts. Build it with shaking hands, and set it for four seconds, thirteen nanoseconds. More than enough time for you to nestle the muzzle of your blaster under your chin. You are sure that the blaze will take care of anything you've forgotten. And if you take the ship with you - if you manage to reach as far as the _Empress_ \- that would be a gratifying thing but you suppose you're not going to know about it. 

You take a deep breath, and pull the trigger before you can delay yourself any further. 

Retirement doesn't hurt as badly as you thought it would. 


End file.
